


A Fortiori

by dudugodudugo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Murder, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4940047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudugodudugo/pseuds/dudugodudugo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry owns a bookshop. Lucius is an irritating but welcome customer.  Post-war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fortiori

_This fic was written for williamsnickers.  Thank you again for contributing so much to the HP fanfiction community._

 

* * *

 

 

He dug through the drawers, trying to find his letter opener. He almost didn’t bother-- almost decided that it would be quicker to simply tear it. But in the end, tearing it seemed too eager. It wasn’t going to be good news, of course not. Was it ever? Harry picked up the knife and slid it, sharply, mechanically.

As he read he could feel, down to the very instant, that his face numbed.

“Not the news you were hoping for, then?” a voice asked. It was a refined voice, filled with arrogance, and normally Harry would have recognised it anywhere. But in that moment, (damn him,) Harry had to look up to recognise Lucius Malfoy. He stood nearby, staring at Harry’s face with unchecked curiosity.

He tried to remember how to move his face. Somehow, he only managed to furrow his brow. “No,” Harry answered, his voice strange. He looked down at the letter, set it on the table, tried to breathe. “No, not this time.”

He didn’t realise how close Lucius was until the man reached out and nearly grasped the letter, but Harry’s hands were quicker. Deftly, he stuffed it under the cash register. At least he could still count on his reflexes.

“Interesting,” Lucius murmured, his eyes bright as he took in Harry.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

That pert mouth turned up mischievously. “I’ve come to browse your shop,” the man replied, his eyebrows raising. “Such as it is. Unless, of course, you’d prefer I take my business elsewhere.”

Harry sighed. “Do what you want, Lucius,” he replied, sitting on a stool. “It doesn’t actually matter one way or another.”

Lucius tilted his head obnoxiously and resumed browsing. His boots made no sound on the wood floors, and against Harry’s better judgment, he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His hand, though, rested on his wand.

He didn’t know how long he stared at the back of his eyelids, letting disappointment crush his windpipe as he thought about the letter. How long was he going to let this charade continue? Was he ever going to actually do anything? A strong headache pressed on his skull.

In the raw quiet a voice murmured thoughtfully, “It is surprising to see some of these sharing the same shelves. You haven’t turned into a Pureblood apologist, have you?”

“I couldn’t even pretend to,” Harry retorted.

“Some of these belong only to the Pureblood families they come from,” the condescending voice said. “Where they can truly be appreciated.”

Harry snorted, his eyes closed. “Do you know any other patron of Knockturn Alley?” he countered.

The shop was quiet for a while, but he didn’t mistake that as a victory on his part. In the far corner of the store, Harry could hear a book sliding off a shelf. Then it fell quiet again.

He was surprised by the sheer amount of time that Lucius spent in his shop that morning. When the man did approach the counter, a sizable stack of books hovered next to him. Harry took them in silence and had his registrar quill write up a receipt.

“Ainsley?” he asked thoughtfully, reading the titles his quill jotted down. “Interesting choice.”

“The Boy Who Lived has read Ainsley?” Lucius straightened. “So you are not just a vagrant collector, but a connoiss-”

“I haven’t read him,” Harry interrupted. He didn’t understand why he was lying, but he hated how easily Lucius grasped onto information he didn’t trust him with. He held Lucius’ eyes for a touch too long, daring Lucius to contradict him.

“Of course not,” Lucius replied after a pause, and he paid for his goods. There was only a hint of a sneer tugging at the man’s mouth when he left, walking as lazily out as he had come in.

Harry shook his head and picked up the letter, which by this point he had almost forgotten.

 

* * *

 

It was weeks before the next letter came. This one was also in a manila envelope, stamped professionally, the seal spelled strongly against theft. It was confidential, professional, unquestionable. That’s why Harry had hired him, he reminded himself.

He took the letter opener off his desk and sliced the envelope neatly open. He wasn’t disappointed this time when he read it. With a deep breath, Harry nodded and tucked the report back inside. It was definitely not disappointment that filled his lungs, like dark water rushing into a chasm.

It was a sunny afternoon, albeit cool in temperature, so he idly wandered his shop and touched the spines of books he didn’t care for. He didn’t read, not really, not with passion, not anymore.

The sun was slow to fall over the horizon.

 

* * *

 

He could feel Draco’s eyes from the doorway, staring in at him as if he were a specimen in a jar. Lucius sighed and set down his book, not even pretending to read Ainsley anymore.

“I know he’s got a detective,” Draco started out slowly.

And yes, he was slow. Lucius bore his eyes into that fragile boy, all legs and no subtlety, a Malfoy only by association.

“And I also know,” Draco continued, “that you’re paying him double to keep his mouth shut.”

“I would never trust money to keep anyone’s mouth shut,” he replied, his mouth twisting at the crudity. “Malfoys are not barbarians, Draco.”

“The detective comes to you first with information, and then you decide whether or not to Obliviate him,” Draco retorted. “It’s exactly the same, father. You’re paying him so you can decide when he shuts his mouth and when he doesn’t.”

Lucius ran his hand over the polished armrest. How long ago had he dug his graceless hands into his own father’s affairs? He could still recall his father’s tired, disappointed expression. It was the expression he found himself wearing now.

“It is not the same at all,” he corrected quietly.

Draco stepped into the drawing room, trying to mask his uneasiness. Lucius watched him with cool appraisal.

“He’s gone round the bend, you know,” Draco spat, trying to catch him off-guard. “Completely unnatural now. I bet he has bodies stuffed into the wall of that shop.”

“We aren’t talking about a fairy tale, here,” he chided his son. “Harry Potter remains the Saviour of the Wizarding World. If his mind is slipping out from underneath him, there will be consequences.”

He watched the boy’s eyes grow nervous. “Then what will we do?” he demanded angrily.

Lucius stood and walked to the door, which Draco had shut minutes ago. He opened it and gave Draco a pointed look. “ _We_?” he asked coldly.

From across the room, Draco folded his arms and refused to move. Had he raised a Gryffindor, then? Lucius set his jaw and slammed the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The doorbell tinkled softly, just before a gloved hand silenced it.

Lucius wandered between the shelves, his destination clear, his walk so confident that it bordered on arrogant. He pulled a book off a shelf, not reading the title, and slid it onto the counter.

“Back again,” Harry observed coolly, looking up, a man torn from his reverie.

Lucius pursed his lips, the corner of his eyes tightening. “I find the other book merchants in the area… strangely lacking in inventory today,” he said casually, leaning towards that lithe body, the green eyes that burned hot, and Potter’s sagging shoulders.

Potter flinched imperceptibly.

“Have a look around then,” that vexatiously neutral voice invited, so little concern lacing his words that it made Lucius uneasy. People rarely spoke to him that way.

He conjured a rolled parchment and set it on the counter. “Draco’s book list.”

The hesitation and hostility from Lucius’ first visit did not, at any point, cross Potter’s face again as he beckoned the scroll to him and opened it. Less avid people could not have missed the wandless, wordless summoning. Lucius shivered at the casual display of power, as books began stacking themselves lazily at Potter’s elbow.

“These are all first editions, of course,” Harry told him, as if it were obvious and uninteresting. Lucius supposed it was.

“Nothing less,” he agreed.

The quill from before did not make an appearance. Instead, Potter self-deprecatingly drew up the receipt himself, his unsteady handwriting betraying him. Lucius stared at it, the lines too long, too wide, with horrible consistency. He pursed his lips and stared at it in the same way a rat stares at a sinking ship.

“Here you are,” a dull voice said, and a heaping stack of books was pushed towards him. Lucius pulled away, mildly offended even as his mind circled Potter like prey.

“I have business matters to take care of today, Mr. Potter,” he said coolly, hardly glancing at the stack. “Have them delivered.”

Harry snorted. “Most blokes shrink them--”

“Absolutely not. As a collector, you must realise how unfortunate that practice is. Deliver them yourself, to Draco, tomorrow.”

Harry stared at him, flabbergasted. Lucius picked up his cane. “You will receive payment then. Good day, Mr. Potter.”

 

* * *

 

Harry shouldered the satchel and, with a heaving sigh, crossed the wards into Malfoy’s estate.

Yes, it was a castle. And yes, it was ridiculous that such a small family lived here. It was large enough to host ten families. He was taken back to Hogwarts, to Voldemort and the Lestranges, to the nights he had spent looking through red eyes at the silk tapestries and a broken Lucius Malfoy, a frightened Draco, an unreadable Snape. A banquet hall filled with Death Eaters.

“Mr. Potter. We’ve been expecting you,” a house elf greeted, opening the door wide. Another elf levitated the satchel off his shoulders.

“Er, thanks,” Harry said, unsteady as he shrugged off his coat and crossed the foyer.

He found Lucius in the parlour, looking as casual as anyone could in formal robes. He was relaxing in an armchair, a book in his hands, his fingers flicking at the pages disinterestedly. When he heard Harry, he set it down.

“Draco, Mr. Potter has arrived with your school books,” Lucius said, as if the thought gave him some perverse pleasure.

Draco, hidden behind an opposing armchair, set down his teacup and rose. “Potter,” he said with a nod. “I heard you had opened a bookshop.”

It was surreal to step towards them, a guest in their domain. “Two years ago,” Harry confirmed offhandedly. “It passes the time. Mind if I?” He gestured at a chair.

It was about ten minutes of painful, idle conversation with Lucius before he mentioned the books again.

“Er, these are Draco’s school books,” Harry admitted, levitating the bag quickly to his side. He opened it to show Draco, who stared at the books with disinterest. “They’re… I think they’ll be good for your university studies.”

“Regardless of how atrocious Mr. Potter is at conversation, it is appropriate to thank him,” Lucius cut in.

“Thank you, Potter,” Draco ground out.

Harry leaned back and tried to pretend that Draco was not there, even as his presence weighed heavily on his mind. “Don’t you think it’s a bit excessive, buying these books?” Harry asked Lucius. “Flourish and Blotts has them fresh off the printing press…”

“We don’t take our patronage to Flourish and Blotts anymore,” Draco muttered, showing his first interest in the conversation.

“As a collector, you must realise the benefit of a dated library,” the older Malfoy chided. “Plenty of time for the books to edit themselves, unlike the fresher copies,” he sneered.

With a lazy hand, Draco picked one up and examined its spine. “We mustn’t broadcast every tradition we have, father,” he said, his eyes glancing at Harry with open distrust. He stood. “Excuse me.”

Harry stared at the retreating form. “Forgive my son,” Lucius murmured, smoothing over the silence. “We all struggle with grace at times.” With the poise of a Malfoy, he rose and gestured towards the door. “Perhaps you would care to see the library before you return to your shop. It rarely finds the attention it deserves,” he added, his eyes roaming Harry’s body.

Harry sighed and glanced at his watch.

“I really must insist.”

“... Alright, then.”

It was a long walk, albeit disturbingly familiar. They passed through several arching rooms, each one more grand than the last. It was easy to recognise Voldemort’s preferred room, the one he had seen so many times in his dreams. Its vaulted ceilings and grandiose table were unmistakable. Harry looked down and quickened his steps.

“Where’s Narcissa? I haven’t seen her,” he asked, realising just how long it had been since he had seen her. She had avoided him after the Final Battle, and at some point he had stopped seeing her altogether.

“I don’t wonder. I hardly see her myself these days,” Lucius commented, his voice subdued. “She takes many walks now. I’m sure you can find her wandering the grounds.”

Harry didn’t comment.

Their footsteps punctuated the silence, the echo of their shoes reverberating off too many walls. The sound betrayed how empty the house was, how excessively regal and frivolous it all was.

Finally they arrived at the library. Harry reached for the door first and swung it inward, revealing rich mahogany shelves that stretched deep into the house. He’d seen it before, but this was the first time he saw it from this angle and not from the ground. As he looked around, it was as if he could still see the blood from Nagini’s victims.

“How well you know your way around my home,” Lucius observed dryly, watching Harry run his hand along the shelves.

“I’ve been here before, or don’t you remember?” Harry said, the war on his mind. He suddenly felt uneasy as a heavy, unknown weight pressed down on him.

Harry glanced behind him to see Lucius, markedly staring. “I trust you know your way around a great many things now, Mr. Potter,” he murmured silkily, stepping towards him.

He had his wand out before Lucius could take another step. The older man stopped, calculating, one hand tightening around his cane. Then he smiled in his mild, invasive way. “You’ve kept your reflexes, then. Interesting. Most people relax after a war ends.”

“I’m not most people,” Harry snapped.

“No… Not at all.” Their eyes bore into each other. “For many years, the greatest wizards alive were Dumbledore and the Dark Lord… One of them was your mentor, and the other, a man you killed. You may as well have carte blanche to do whatever you wish. I’m surprised you haven’t used that to your advantage.”

He examined the soulless eyes of Lucius Malfoy, five hexes pressing on the edge of his lips.

But Lucius broke the spell as he lowered his cane and, with a lazy gesture, straightened his cuffs. When he turned and slid toward a cabinet the taut rope around Harry’s neck loosened. For the first time since he entered the library, he felt he could breathe.

Lucius picked up a decanter, and Harry could hear the sound of glass touching. Liquid pouring.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder as, at the same time, a glass was pushed towards him. Lucius’ fingers slid down his sleeve, and like a snake, wrapped around his arm. Harry could smell the sharp scent of Malfoy’s cologne and unconsciously licked his lips.

“You’re too pretty to be literate,” Lucius teased. “Tell me, what have you read of Ainsley?”

 

* * *

 

Quietly, Harry ran his hands over the spines.

“It’s unhealthy,” Hermione was saying, her voice stern. “You need to move on.”

He sighed, leaning against the bookshelf. He was tired of this conversation.

“I can’t.”

“You can, mate,” Ron growled around a pastry. “The world’s better off without him, I’d wager.”

Hermione nodded her approval, which only cut Harry’s patience in half. He turned around explosively. “It doesn’t matter, Ron. It doesn’t fucking matter if it is. I’m going to find him. He has to stand trial.”

Hermione and Ron stared at him, ready to argue. Harry grimaced and rubbed his scar. “You just don’t understand.”

“It’s already been two years, Harry,” Hermione pleaded, as if that were a terribly long time. “He’s long gone. The Death Eater trials are over. McGonagall would offer you a position here at Hogwarts in a heartbeat. You’d feel normal again. I bet you wouldn’t obsess over this anymore.”

“And Kingsley is completely overturning the Ministry,” Ron piped up. “He’s always looking for new blood, and mate, just think of how many heads you’d turn. You’re Harry Potter!”

 _You may as well have carte blanche to do whatever you wish_ , a ghostly voice echoed inside his mind.

Harry scoffed. “I’m not going to do that. I have my bookshop. I’m not just going to leave.”

“Why not?” Hermione demanded. “It’s just a bookshop, Harry. I’m not sure why you even bought it in the first place.”

“Because I wanted to! Why is my life up for discussion?” he snapped. “I’m the only one living it, aren’t I. I don’t go round telling you to get over your parents-” he glared at Hermione- “or Fred-” Ron winced- “this way or that.”

There was a pause. But, this time, Hermione couldn’t keep it all to herself. “It’s not just anyone, Harry,” she burst out. “We’re talking about Snape. Do you even hear yourself? We’re not talking about Fred or Sirius. You’re ruining your life over Snape!”

“You don’t get it, do you!” Harry yelled, not knowing what else to say. “Everyone else has already stood trial. They’ve been held accountable. Snape doesn’t just get to run off after killing Dumbledore. That’s insanity.”

“We don’t even know if he’s alive!” Ron shouted.

“I don’t care if all I find is his body!” Harry shouted back. He blinked at Ron, surprised, and pressed his hand to his mouth.

 

* * *

 

“Stumbled upon some valuable business, have we?” a bored, assessing voice came from the door.

Harry looked over to find Lucius evaluating the empty shelves. “The opposite, actually,” he said, throwing more books into a box. “I’m selling this place.”

“Young businesses rarely break even the first year,” Lucius told him, condescending in the most subtle way.

“It was never about money,” Harry snapped. “And it was only on a whim that I opened this place, anyway. I didn’t realise how much time it would take up.”

“And you have better things to be doing with your time,” Lucius said. It wasn’t a question.

“Perhaps.”

Lucius approached him. “The day must truly be foul,” he commented, “to put you in such a mood. A pity. Stress spoils the figure, and you normally have such an exquisite one.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Harry sneered, picking up another stack of books. “You’re terrible at them.”

Lucius was standing too close now. He could smell his cologne, the starch on his collar, his breath on his face. Harry swallowed.

“Give me that,” the older man breathed, pulling a book from Harry’s hands. Cool hands massaged his knuckles, his palm, before Harry could pull away.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Lucius. I’ve got a lot on my plate. Either you’re helping, or buying, or leaving.”

With a waning smile, Lucius packed the book he had taken into an open box. Then he arched an eyebrow.

“Fine.” Harry gathered more books into his arms. He wasn’t looking at Lucius anymore.

But, like a child, Lucius even needed supervision to pack books. A sharp clapping sound announced that the older man had dropped a book near Harry’s feet.

“Bloody hell…” Harry bent down to grab it when something heavy pressed into him. Even through the thick robes, he could feel Lucius rubbing against him.

He straightened and turned so quickly his neck might have snapped. “What the hell are you doing?” he growled, shoving Lucius back. “What in hell’s name was that!”

“Foolish child. I never came here for the books.” Lucius licked his lips and stepped forward. “You really are a nasty little boy,” he murmured as he pulled his robes back and fiddled with his trousers. Harry stared at the pale hands, his mind numb. Slowly, he realised what the other man was doing.

“You’re disgusting,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. His own drawers grew tighter as he watched Lucius loosen his belt. Unconsciously, he squeezed himself. “Do you even realise? You make me sick.”

In one movement, Lucius took Harry’s hand and pressed it against his exposed penis. It was pale and hard, the flesh smooth, rubbing into his palm in the most satisfying way. Harry gripped it and pulled. Lucius followed. “Merlin, you are pathetic,” he quipped, pulling again. Lucius could only grunt, his eyes open and bright. He was watching Harry, rubbing himself against Harry’s palm.

With a sigh, Harry undid his fly. “On your knees.”

There was no hesitation as Lucius sank to his knees. He slowly wrapped his mouth around Harry’s cock. The heated and wet tongue excited him as Malfoy sucked him in. But it wasn’t enough. “Look at me,” Harry demanded.

“I said, look at me.”

Lucius ignored him. It made him angry. Harry grabbed both sides of Malfoy’s face and thrust forward. For a second, he felt the back of Lucius’ throat. Merlin, it was good. He pulled Lucius’ head down again and thrust as hard as he could, fast now, desperate. He’d never been harder.

Beneath him, Lucius gagged and sucked. It wasn’t long before he came, holding Lucius’ head down, aware of the pale chin touching his balls.

When he finished, he pushed Malfoy back. The man lost his balance and fell, catching himself on his hands. Harry looked down at the red, aching flesh that hung out of the expensive robes. Lucius refused to look down, refused to tuck it away.

Harry conjured a chair and sat down, staring at Lucius, not bothering to hide his revolt. “Come here,” he growled.

Lucius crawled on his hands toward him. Harry extended his leg. “Get yourself off, then,” he invited.

Clearly the man was insulted, but he said nothing. Instead he pulled off his robes and removed his trousers. Then, looking into Harry’s eyes, he pressed his penis into Harry’s shin and began rubbing against him.

It was entertaining, in a way that Harry usually didn’t find things entertaining. He watched Lucius, his impassive face too still to be natural, his grey eyes bright as he stared at Harry. With a lazy hand, Harry fisted his own cock.

It only took a few minutes for a perturbed grunt to escape Lucius. He had been rubbing as hard as he could; it wasn’t enough. He pulled himself up and straddled Harry’s thigh, agitated now. His penis was close enough to touch Harry’s as he ground into him, and a black shirt filled Harry’s entire vision. Strong hands gripped his shoulders as Lucius thrust powerfully on his leg.

After a minute the older man growled near to his ear and jerked forward. His cock rubbed the front of Harry’s shirt and he came.

 

* * *

 

Lucius didn’t return to the shop in the remaining days. Harry packed quietly, the air dusty and choking. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he left, heading towards Diagon Alley to a small office behind Gringotts.

“Mr. Potter,” the secretary greeted, hiding her surprise.

He was inside Stewart’s office within minutes, neat stacks of papers suspended in the air and occasionally resorting themselves. The detective immediately rose and leaned forward for a firm handshake. “I wasn’t expecting to see Harry Potter today. What brings you about?”

“What happened with my tip-off the other day?” Harry asked instead.

“Well,” he started distractedly, riffling through papers, “by nature, leads don’t always offer results. I follow many leads, Mr. Potter, and normally only one or two ever lead anywhere. It’s the nature of the business.”

“But what exactly happened?” he demanded.

Stewart sighed. “Severus Snape is not in Britain, Mr. Potter. Any intelligent man would never try and return here with his record. Unfortunately, the tip you received wasn’t good intelligence.”

Annoyed, Harry ran a hand over his mouth. “I hired you to give me results,” he said, trying to say it calmly.

He must have sensed the thin ice he was treading on, because Stewart stopped fidgeting and leaned back in his chair. “I told you when we started this investigation, there may not be any conclusion. We may be searching for a long time, we may never find anything. Snape is-”

“How is it,” he interrupted, losing his temper, “that I can find more leads without trying, than you can with all the resources I’ve given you? I pay you to do that.”

The detective’s face pinched in irritation, ready to argue, so Harry quickly cut him off. “Clearly this isn’t working out, alright? We’re through here. We’re through,” he growled.

“Mr. Potter,” Stewart started, looking extremely unhappy.

Harry got to his feet.

 

* * *

 

They sat at the dining table in Grimmauld Place.

“I know he’s alive,” Harry murmured into his teacup. “I know it. It’s all I think about. All day, it’s the only thing on my mind.”

Hermione sighed, fiddling with a biscuit, not eating it. “Didn’t you hire that private investigator, though? He’s already been out looking, Harry. You don’t need to drop your life over this.”

He took a deep breath, let it out. “I… I don’t even think he’s looking. I mean, I gave him a really good tip-off a few weeks ago, and he didn’t have anything to show for it. He’s next to useless.”

Hermione looked up. “He came highly recommended. He’s the best in London.”

Not knowing what to say, Harry shrugged. “It just isn’t enough anymore. He’s… I fired him.”

They both stared miserably into their tea.

“Even if he were looking, and is really good at what he does… Snape is still better,” Harry said, thinking aloud. “He doesn’t know what to look out for.”

“And you do?” Hermione demanded. “Harry, you didn’t know Snape that well.”

He watched as she stood up and dumped her cup in the sink. “The war is over. Everyone who made it is here, and you’re just going to get up and leave us? To search for Snape? I don’t understand that.”

The conversation wasn’t going anywhere he wanted it to. Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Everyone you’re talking about, they think the war is over. You and Ron are as well. And that’s great, I’m happy for you. But the war isn’t over, Hermione, and I’m not about to play pretend that it is. This is the only thing that makes sense to me.”

“The bookshop made sense for a while, though, didn’t it? You didn’t have to close it. You could have kept on there until you got a handle on things,” Hermione said, almost pleading.

“It made sense for a while, yes,” Harry nodded. He paused for a second before shrugging. “And then it just stopped making sense, I guess.”

They were at an impasse. He could even feel the way the air changed, as if they were standing on a precipice and the wind had suddenly changed direction. It whistled around them like so many unanswered questions.

Harry held his head in his hands. “All I’m asking is that you look in on this place from time to time,” he said slowly, his voice strained.

From the corner of his eye, he watched Hermione pick up her purse. After a minute she set it down and let out a long-suffering sigh. “How long will you be gone?” she asked, as if she were afraid of the answer.

He hated that he had no answer. Any specific timeline would just be a lie.

“I… don’t know.”

“You’re really breaking my heart, Harry,” she finally said, her face pinched in pain. She looked about ready to cry. “Of course I’ll look in on this place for you.”

Harry felt a light hand on his shoulder. By the time he looked up, she was gone.

 

* * *

 

He thought about going to see Ron, or Hogwarts, one last time before he left. Somehow, the only place he ended up was the long, stone pathway to Lucius Malfoy’s door.

Lucius was idling in the drawing room.

“Mr. Potter,” he greeted coolly. A house elf closed the door behind Harry, leaving him alone with the man.

“I’ve closed up the shop,” he announced.

Lucius leaned back into the couch, examining him. “Is that right? I meant to drop by,” he said politely, but Harry could tell he was lying.

“I thought you’d appreciate this,” he said, stepping forward with a book. “I had it stashed away for a good bit.” He handed it to Lucius, feeling uncomfortable and more than a bit exposed.

“A kind gesture,” Lucius acknowledged, setting it on an end table.

He couldn’t stand it anymore. When Lucius latently licked his lips, Harry vividly remembered the feeling of the wet tongue sliding along the underside of his penis. He squeezed himself through his trousers.

“I’m used to subtler advances,” Lucius told him dryly as he stood up.

Harry snorted. “Well, maybe I’m more interesting than that.” Crudely, he pulled his sweater off and unbuttoned his fly. When he was naked he walked over to where Lucius was still standing, watching him. Grey eyes looked him over appraisingly.

“You really are a nasty boy,” Lucius murmured, kissing him roughly. He wouldn’t have called it a kiss, really: just tongues pushing the other down, and teeth.

Harry was only half-hard when Lucius pulled away.

“Bend over.”

His knees sank into the couch and he hung off the back of it, his arse in the air. Harry could hear the sound of a zipper pulling, fabric sliding. In a moment something hard and warm slapped his cheeks. He tried to look back but Lucius grabbed his neck and shoved his face against the crest rail. Harry swallowed.

“Be a good boy,” Lucius whispered in his ear.

The hand tightened around his neck as something heavy stretched his arsehole. “Hold on,” he growled hoarsely. “It hurts.”

“We both know this is what you came here for,” Lucius hissed, pressing harder.

Harry clenched his teeth. With both hands he gripped the sofa, shutting his eyes until he felt Lucius’ penis completely inside him.

“Ease off a bit,” he begged.

Instead, strong hands grabbed his and held them roughly behind his back. “Is this the great murderer of the Dark Lord?” Lucius demanded. His voice held a burning degree of derision, and Harry hated him for it. He wanted to take a wand to that smug face that stared down at him, stuffy and self-satisfied.

“Then fuck me,” he challenged instead, his voice scathing.

Lucius obeyed and thrust into him like a man possessed, grunting, whimpering. He could feel the hard flesh in his bum, wet and burning. Of its own volition, his hand slipped out of Lucius’ hold and yanked himself.

From far away, as if underwater, Harry could hear metal clicking.

“Draco,” a low voice at Harry’s ear growled. “He likes to watch,” Lucius told Harry loudly. “Isn’t that right, Draco? You enjoy watching your father work.” He drove into Harry with cold precision.

For a moment, Harry looked up and met the grey, watery eyes of Draco Malfoy. He was standing at the door, his normally icy sneer looking strangely twisted around. It was all wrong on his face. After a second, Harry realised he was angry. The door smacked shut.

Harry was no longer in the mood. He kneeled, almost uncomfortable, as Lucius finished himself off.

 

* * *

 

It was a few months later that he returned to Britain. He actually hadn’t meant to come back at all, not here, to the fool’s paradise. But there he was, back on the cobblestones walking up to his front door. He told himself it was like the war-- he was only here for a little while, to rest.

“How long have you been back?” a voice demanded from the doorway.

Harry set down the book he’d been trying to read and looked at the library door. Where it had been closed, Hermione now stood, staring at him. She grimaced fondly. “You look terrible.”

Despite himself, he stood up and smiled. “That’s not very nice.”

Suddenly, he had an armful of Hermione. Her huge hair suffocated him as she rested her cheek on his shoulder and sniffled. “Didn’t even write me letters, you git,” she chided. “Come on, then, I’ll put the tea on.”

“Actually, where’s Ron about now? We could all nip out for a bite.”

Hermione shook her head and sighed. “Wrapped up at the Ministry these days. It’s been a nightmare. I barely even catch sight of him now.”

“What?” Harry followed her down the stairs. “That’s unfortunate.”

“A lot’s changed, Harry,” Hermione told him. She grimaced as she filled a pot with water. “I keep thinking the war is over, but it’s not, not really.”

Harry stared at her. “No, it’s not,” he agreed quietly.

“Did you find… anything?” she asked nervously.

He swallowed and shook his head. At this point, he really didn’t want to think about it. “What case is Ron stuck on?” he asked quickly, changing the subject.

“Oh, well…” Hermione pulled out the teacups and sighed, examining them. “Narcissa Malfoy’s body turned up about a week ago. It was…” she shuddered. “Mangled.”

His ears rang, the room shrinking around him. Harry stared at her, trying to swallow, his body numb. “What?” he asked, sure he’d heard wrong.

“It was a bloody mess,” she continued, looking as sick as he suddenly felt. “Took the Ministry three days to clean up the, you know, the bits…”

He stood up, needing to feel the weight of the ground underneath him. “Narcissa Malfoy?” he asked again, his legs shaking a little. “I… It’s strange. I was just at her house.”

Hermione glanced at him strangely. “She’s been missing for three months, Harry,” she said. “Everyone thought she’d run off for the longest time. Come to think of it, it was actually around the time that you left.”

He rubbed his forehead, overheated and sick. “That can’t be right. Lucius Malfoy said-”

“Who do you think was just arrested for her murder, Harry?” Hermione shook her head. “You don’t look good. Do you need a potion?”

“Lucius has been arrested?” he couldn’t fit the words in his mouth. “Fuck.” He closed his eyes and fisted his hair. “Fuck, Hermione. I’ve got to get to the Ministry.”

He grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

 

* * *

 

Apparating there wasn’t the problem. He slid through the heavy, ancient wards with ease, illegally Apparating directly into a fireplace on the first floor. Awkwardly, he stepped out.

“First day on the job?” a man holding a briefcase asked, stepping out of a nearby fireplace. “It gets easier, mind you.”

“Thanks.” Harry pushed his hair out of his face, expecting some other kind of reaction, but the man shrugged and checked his watch. Another man came out of the fireplace he’d just vacated, adjusted his tie, and headed down the hall. Harry followed them.

He didn’t know where Lucius was being kept. Unfortunately, of all the places he had ever been imprisoned in his life, the Ministry was not one of them. Harry thought about it for a second, then started for the courtrooms.

He was nearly there when a hand snagged his arm, yanking him around. “You smell like death,” a harsh voice said.

“Draco.” Harry sighed in relief. “I’m here to see Lucius… Do you know where your father is being kept?”

“You shouldn’t get involved in other people’s affairs. Go back to whatever filthy hole you crawled out of, Potter.”

“Most people would appreciate my help,” he snapped.

“What help? Help has already arrived.” Draco gestured at the courtrooms. “The iron hand of justice. A bit slow, but better late than not at all.”

“You’re a heartless bastard,” Harry growled. “This is your father we’re talking about.”

For the first time, he saw a look on Draco’s face that sent a shiver down his spine. “This is my mother we’re talking about,” the snake hissed, turning white.

“HARRY!”

Hermione’s feet echoed on the glass floor. “Harry,” she panted, coming up to him. “You just, ran off, and I… Draco.” She looked at him and stuttered to a halt. Harry could see the gears in her mind spinning futilely.

“Granger,” Draco acknowledged. “Come to buy front row seats to the media circus?”

He watched Hermione swallow her retort. “I’m so sorry about your loss,” she said instead, her voice strained. Malfoy stared at them blankly. “We should really go,” she quietly told Harry.

Harry pulled away. “I’m not leaving until I talk to Lucius.”

They both looked at him, baffled.

 

* * *

 

Afterward, Hermione wasn’t waiting for him outside the courtrooms. He found her playing the piano at Grimmauld Place.

“It sounds good,” he told her as he pulled off his damp jacket.

Shyly, she tapped one of the keys. “I haven’t played in a while,” she admitted. “You’re lucky to have a piano lying around.”

He grunted in agreement and collapsed in a chair.

“Did they let you in to see Mr. Malfoy?”

A yawn escaped him. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Yea, though it took a good bit. Had to throw my weight around. They did let me through eventually.”

Hermione was staring at him, her eyes alight. “Well?” she demanded. “What did he say?”

“Well…” He quickly tried to think up a lie that would sound alright. “He… He really doesn’t want to believe he did it. Killed his wife, I mean. I’m not sure I believe it, either.”

She looked pained as she considered it. “He must have, Harry,” she said. “I mean, who else? She was bitter at him for ages about the Final Battle. He is the one who persuaded Draco to become a Death Eater. Don’t you remember how awful they were around each other… even in public.”

Harry gave her a scrutinising look. Hermione swallowed, her eyes darting away. “It’s not hard to notice if you’re paying attention.”

He couldn’t hide his wince. “Regardless, we may be jumping to conclusions.”

“Harry, what’s going on between you and Mr. Malfoy?”

His stomach twitched at the implications. “He was one of my customers,” he explained, trying to sound off-handed. “Just a really, really good customer. A pleasure to have around. Loyal,” he added quickly.

“I didn’t know he came regularly,” Hermione said, oblivious.

“Yea,” Harry agreed, licking his lips. “Yes, he did.”

 

* * *

 

After Hermione left, he sank into bed and pulled the sheets over his eyes. In the hot, humid darkness between the covers, he breathed.

_Snape crumbled, hunching over Narcissa's pale body. Harry could see her chest slowly rise and fall as she took in her last breaths. Even from here, there was a red tint to her, as if he were looking at her through rose-tinted glasses._

_“I knew you’d never change,” he told the Death Eater._

_"Potter," Snape whispered, his voice strangely distorted. A ghostly hand reached out to him._

A knock came at the door the next morning. Harry heard it as he was padding towards the kitchen, and for a moment he thought about not answering. With a heaving sigh, he changed his mind and pulled it open.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.” Harry stared at the clean-pressed robes, black in mourning. He scratched his jaw. “Is this really the time?”

Draco looked up and down the street, nervous. “Invite me in, Potter,” he ordered.

Harry sighed and pulled the door back. Draco jumped inside and slammed it shut. “You really have no manners at all,” he said after a moment, and started down the hall.

He found Draco in the dining room, examining the Black family tree. “We have something similar,” Malfoy told him, sounding raw. “Less banal than yours, obviously.”

“Have you burned out Lucius’ face, then?” Harry asked. At Draco’s surprise, he gestured towards Sirius’ blackened image. “Isn’t that what you do to family members who misbehave?”

A sneer spread across Draco’s face. “Malfoys are not barbarians, Potter.”

Annoyed, Harry wandered into the kitchen. “Remind me again why you’re here?”

He felt eyes on him as he set the kettle on the stove. “I want to know what you and he talked about,” Draco demanded. It was a voice he recognised from his schooldays, a voice usually reserved for Crabbe and Goyle.

“I’m not a Quick-Quotes Quill, Malfoy,” he replied. “Ask him yourself if you want to know so badly.”

A knock came at the window, an owl, and Harry stood up to fetch it. “I can’t bear to look at him,” Draco explained, oblivious to the interruption.

It was a plain owl, the kind that belong only to businesses and schools. Harry watched it land on the stand he’d bought for Hedwig years ago, not nearly as graceful as she had been. It stuck out its knobbly leg.

“Can’t you?” he asked Draco, untying the letter.

“Of course not. He murdered my mother,” Draco said slowly, each word painfully forced out of his mouth, as if he himself did not believe it. Harry stared at him. Perhaps he didn’t.

“Your water’s boiling,” Malfoy pointed out, looking at him like he’d gone insane. Harry nodded absently and levitated it off the stove. The tea steeped itself as he wrestled with the owl.

“Got it,” he muttered finally, pulling the letter away. Then he turned on Malfoy. “You don’t actually think your father did it, though, do you? He doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“To kill someone?” Draco let out a short, bitter snort. “He’s a Death Eater. He has killed many, many people. You’re still naïve, Potter.”

Harry looked at him, irritated. “If he’s killed so many bloody people, then why is he imprisoned? I thought Slytherins thought that sort of thing through.”

Draco glared at him, ignoring the cup of tea that set itself down beside his elbow. “I need to know what he said to you.” He looked at the letter in Harry’s hands for the first time. “What is that?” he asked suspiciously.

With a shrug, he reached for the letter opener. “Not sure,” he murmured, cutting it open.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_You may be pleased to learn that Severus Snape’s body was found earlier this week, in a house in northern England. I regret the way our association ended on this matter._

_Regards,_

_James Stewart_

He skimmed the contents quickly and tucked it back in the envelope.

“I’ve seen that seal somewhere before,” a casual voice said.

Harry licked his lips and folded the envelope in half, feeling a bit nervous about having it out. “Some good news, for once,” he explained shortly. “It’s private. Look, Draco, I know you want your father to be innocent… Even if he’s not guilty of this, he deserves to be in Azkaban for many other reasons.”

Draco’s thin face twisted. “We’ve all done things, you know. Everyone who was part of the war deserves to be in Azkaban.”

“Even you?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Draco didn’t answer. It was all the answer he needed. At this point he was tired of Draco being in his house, in his kitchen, drinking his tea. He made a show of checking the time and stood up. “Bloody hell, I’m late for a meeting. Let me see you out.”

They walked to the door and Harry threw it open. “I’ll see you at your father’s trial, yea?” He shut the door on Draco’s surprised face and heartlessly locked it.

 

* * *

 

Draco looked down his nose at the Auror. “I’m here to see my father.”

“Haven’t changed a bit since school, have you?” Someone commented cheerily from behind him. Draco turned in time to catch Ron approaching them. He nodded at his co-worker to leave, as he shot Draco a friendly grimace.

Draco ignored it. “My father,” he reiterated.

“Heard you the first time,” Ron replied, frowning. “We’ve been keeping him in a separate holding since last night. Ran into some trouble. This way.”

The ginger led him down a hallway, into a sideways elevator, and down several floors till they hit rock. It all seemed a bit dreary, actually. He thought about making his excuses and leaving, right then, and damn the consequences. Damn his father. Only confusion, and a tight knot of anger, kept him walking forward.

“Sorry about your mother,” Ron said into the quiet corridor, looking like the words physically pained him to say.

Draco ignored him.

He could make out his father, just beyond the bars. To his surprise Lucius still looked exactly as himself, regal, arrogant, a nightingale thrust into a cage. There was no trace of Narcissa in his eyes.

“Draco,” Lucius pronounced carefully, each syllable a surprise on his tongue. “You’re looking well.”

It had been years since he had cried in front of his father. Now, he stared at Lucius, trying not to blink. He set his jaw, stood taller, prepared himself.

“Did you kill her, then?” His voice broke a little, and he panted, as if he’d just run a great distance.

From afar, Lucius examined his son. For the first time he stepped towards him.

“Is that any question to ask your father?” Lucius looked down the corridor, to the guard by the door, and leaned in. “Listen carefully, Draco. At the trial, I am going to request Veritaserum. After you have heard the truth, you may help me bring the murderer of your mother to justice. Our justice.”

“Hands off,” the guard called loudly, and Draco noticed for the first time that his father had grabbed his collar to pull him in. Lucius let go, white knuckles slipping out of sight. He gave his son a meaningful look.

It was the clearest answer he would have from his father, but it wasn’t an answer. He held his head and tried to make sense of what Lucius was saying.

“We are blood, Draco. Whatever lies Potter has been filling your head with, disregard them. They will release me after the trial. And then you will help me, because that is what blood does,” he hissed.

“Do not trust Harry Potter,” he warned him, his hair untamed, his eyes wide. “He is killing us.”

He looked so much like the Lucius Malfoy from the war, as if he had purposely stepped out of the Final Battle to come directly to Draco here, in this cell, under this tragedy. He looked at his father one more time and left without another word.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Draco walked into Courtroom 3 and sat down. It was early in the day, but already members of the Wizengamot were filing in and sitting down. He watched them out of the corner of his eye, each red robe another drop on the scale for his father. Lucius controlled them all. Why did he need Veritaserum?

What his father had said made no sense. It literally made no sense, and perhaps that, more than anything, was why he was here. For days, it felt like his head had been filled with leaves.

He noticed a bint from the Daily Prophet come in, but none of father’s friends. None of his friends, either. Of all people, it was Harry Potter who sat beside him.

“Nerve-wracking, isn’t it?” he greeted.

“Only if you think he’s innocent,” Draco shot back.

Harry’s eyes slid over him, assessing. “I don’t know what kind of man you imagine your father to be, Draco,” he started.

“I don’t _imagine_ him to be anything,” he cut in.

Harry sighed and leaned back. They waited for it to start.

In a few minutes, Lucius came in, flanked by two guards. His eyes flashed over the two, hardening as if in understanding. Draco swallowed, feeling suddenly guilty.

“Lucius Malfoy versus the Commonwealth,” a voice announced, stilling the room. “Two counts of murder. Commonwealth calls first witness."

A man from the Wizengamot cleared his throat. "Who is representing Mr. Malfoy?" he interrupted.

"I am representing myself," Lucius announced.

The man nodded, and Draco recognised the concession for what it was. His father did not need Veritaserum, or even the law, to control the verdict. So why was he insisting upon it? "We may proceed."

"Very well." Umbridge smiled and pressed her glasses up. "It is standard among all murder trials to apply truth serum. Where are we with that?"

"Is that even allowed?" Harry asked. His status, not the volume of his voice, made everyone turn. "I mean, without Lucius' consent."

His father's eyes narrowed like a cat who had just cornered their prey. Draco looked at Potter as well, perhaps seeing him for the first time.

He heard the rest of the trial as if from underwater. Draco licked his lips, the truth spreading through his mind like poison seeping into a wound. He didn’t listen to his father under Veritaserum-- he no longer needed to. It wasn’t what his father said under truth serum, but rather who spoke against it.

As his mind clicked, his stomach dropped out from underneath him.

Potter was staring at the interrogator and Lucius, looking pale.

“I visited him the day before last,” Draco said quietly, his voice sounding strange to himself. Potter didn’t turn. “He had some interesting ideas about who killed my mother. I knew you were unhinged, Potter, but...”

There was a loud scraping of bench on wood as Potter suddenly stood up. He glanced down at Draco, not with betrayal or upset, but calculatedly. Then he walked away. Draco watched him pull open the doors the courtroom and quickly followed.

In the corridor, Potter was heading swiftly towards the elevator. It was as good as an affirmation. “You killed my mother!” Draco shouted angrily, unable to control himself. He pulled out his wand, his hand shaking. “She saved your life!”

Potter whipped around as a curse flew past his ear. Draco could hear the magic crack as a shield came up, even as Potter held up his empty hands. “Malfoy,” he started.

He understood why he needed his father then. Who could summon a shield of that strength wandlessly, wordlessly? He brewed tea without looking at it. He killed the Dark Lord with barely a scratch to him.

Malfoy stared at Potter, for the first time seeing the Boy Who Lived. All of his self-righteous, arrogant deeds that Dumbledore had rewarded him for. Of course Harry Potter would never change, would never stop, would never stand trial. His mind flashed through the inevitable conclusions.

In his hesitation, Potter shook his head and, with a pitying look, Apparated. Draco stared at the empty corridor in disbelief. A second later a guard hurried out of the courtroom. “Bad batch of Veritaserum,” she muttered under her breath as she hurried past.

 

* * *

 

Lucius shoved a handful of robes into Draco’s arms. “Put these on,” he ordered. “Now, immediately.”

He watched his son undress, the young, lithe body so much like his mother’s. His skin was pale, as a Malfoy’s should be, raised in goosebumps. He glanced up at Lucius for a moment, flushing. Then he immediately started pulling on the new robes.

They were in an alley in London, the Ministry building looming over them, blocking out the weak sunlight. A cold breeze passed through the alley.

“This isn’t going to work,” Draco snapped, looking irritated as he pulled at the Auror robes.

Lucius pinched his nose. Why had he chosen to involve his son in this? He may as well have chosen a half-wit, for all that he had born one. With a lazy gesture of his cane, Draco’s face morphed into a hideous Mudblood’s.

He sneered, moving his hair out of his face. “Bring Potter’s friend here. It should not be difficult in the slightest degree.”

Draco swallowed and nodded. Then he was off. Lucius took care to tuck himself inside a doorway, and waited.

 

* * *

 

“Harry?” Hermione stepped through the Floo, not bothering with pleasantries. Harry jumped, his teacup rattling as he set it down.

“What are you doing here, Hermione?” He glanced at the door for a moment, expecting someone else.

“Ron’s missing,” Hermione burst out. “They’ve just announced it. Two Aurors came by Hogwarts to tell me. Molly is in fits, and I… I really don’t know what to do, Harry.”

“Alright.” He swallowed.

“Why would anyone do something like this?” she demanded. “All I can think of, is that they are using him to get you… But I came here, and you’re fine,” she added, looking him over.

It was Lucius. He knew it was. “Probably just haven’t gotten around to me yet,” Harry soothed her. “Ron’s a terrible hostage.”

“It’s been so long since the war. I don’t understand why this is happening,” she said, ignoring him. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking.”

He stood up to fetch another cup for tea. By the time he set it down in front of Hermione, he knew he had made a grave error. She was staring at him, her eyes unfathomable. “You know something,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Harry sighed and picked up the teapot. “I know something,” he agreed.

 

* * *

 

“The trials were there to take care of the Death Eaters,” Hermione explained, her voice rising. At this point, they were arguing in circles. “And they did exactly what they were supposed to do.”

“Did they, though?” he challenged, throwing up his hands. “There are still Death Eaters walking free amongst us! Every day. Are we supposed to let them?”

“Yes!” Hermione said desperately. “Yes! That’s exactly what we are supposed to do! They were found innocent, Harry. Maybe they did terrible things in the war, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll do them again.”

He scoffed. “That’s exactly what it means. I’m not going to just let them hang around like this. Someone had to do something to stop these people.”

In an instant, Hermione’s pinched face slackened. She was staring at him in fear. “What did you do, Harry?”

“I stopped us from getting into another war,” he retorted, defensive. He gripped his seat, hating the way she was looking at him. “I kept all of us safe. Dumbledore would have understood. He’d have wanted us to have a fresh start, don’t you see that?”

She was looking at him as if she couldn’t recognise him. “Did you kill anyone, Harry?” she asked quietly, touching her mouth.

Harry inhaled sharply. “I did what I had to do,” he said, brazen even as his face paled.

Somewhere outside, he could hear children laughing. It was quiet in here, though. As they sat, Hermione’s shoulders sagged and she frowned at her hands. “Lucius Malfoy is going to kill you,” she finally told him.

He was going to tell her that that was exactly what he’d feared, but he didn’t have the chance. “No,” she corrected herself after a minute, sounding surprised. “He’s going to kill Ron.”

 

* * *

 

_Distinguish first of all that defensive return blow which one delivers even against lifeless objects which have hurt us: our countermove is to put a stop to the injury by bringing the machine to a halt. If you want to call this action an act of revenge, all right; but consider that we act that way without any wish to do harm in return, merely in order to get away with life and limb._

_This happens in the second type of revenge: one wants to hurt. The strength of the counterblow is determined solely by what he has done to us. This revenge does not protect us against further harm; for our opponent thus demonstrated that he did not fear us. By revenge we demonstrate that we do not fear him either._

_Nothing therefore seems more different than the inner motivation or the two ways of action that are called by one name, “revenge."_

-Nietzsche, “Elements of revenge.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Leave a comment for the author here or on [Livejournal](http://hp-darkages.livejournal.com/16406.html).
> 
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